


Two Steps, Twice

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Season 2 spoilers, Season 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Countdown, Neal teeters on the edge of survival while Peter learns some hard truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Steps, Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the marvelous aisle_one.  
> Title is taken from a Foals song of the same name.  
> 

 

 

 

From the moment Peter dragged him down the front steps of his home and socked him in the jaw, Neal took it. When they found Mozzie at the airstrip, the art in his possession, his fate already signed and sealed, he took it. When they opened those vast crates of stolen treasure. When they found Keller at The Palace. When they found Elizabeth. He took all of it.

He took the punch, the hateful words – the fall. He took the bullet too, when, with a crude smile, Keller aimed his gun at Peter’s chest and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation or regret. The gunshot reverberated around the labyrinthine building almost as loudly as the scream that followed it. 

Neal watched with detached fascination as blood blossomed out across his shirt. Other gunshots rang out then, a relentless, dissonant symphony that started slow and ended fast. His legs gave out somewhere between the first and second movements and as he crumpled to the ground he saw Keller’s body do the same.

For a long moment, there was utter silence. Plumes of dust rose up towards the ornate glass ceiling, the acrid stench of gunpowder permeating the air. There was a shout – then strong hands were turning him over and pushing down on his chest with ferocious pressure. Neal’s vision whited out as pain finally screamed through his body and he tried to push the hands away, only to find his own caught and held. He blinked furiously and when his vision finally cleared he realised it was Jones and Diana leant over him, their faces completely ashen. Someone’s arm appeared over Jones’ shoulder and as Diana reached up to take the jacket they were offering, Neal saw that her hands were already sodden with blood – his blood – soaking into up her shirtsleeves like a crimson sunset streaked across a pale sky. The breath caught in his throat and as the seconds passed he remained transfixed by the image as it slowly burned itself onto his retina, unable to draw a whisper of air into his lungs.

_“Neal?”_

He emitted a choked, gurgling sound that at least made his point, even if the pressure in his chest was all the worse for it. A coppery taste filled his mouth then, and he started to panic as he realised he was suffocating, drowning in his own blood. He reached out, desperately grasping for a lifeline. Diana clasped his hand, her fingers slipping on his, but he couldn’t feel it.

_“Come on, Neal. Breathe.”_

He wanted to know where Peter was, wanted the reassuring weight of his touch and the warmth of his eyes, even if he had to fake it. Why wasn’t Peter here to comfort him while he was dying? Surely he deserved that much? A cold thought entered his mind then, spreading out like thawing ice, and as he shivered and convulsed he thought that maybe this was how Kate felt when he turned his back to her on that frozen airstrip. Maybe taking the bullet wasn’t enough.

 

*

 

Elizabeth stood silently in his arms as Neal was taken away. Peter was grateful for the warmth of her body against his, for the tight grasp she had on his shirt; without them he feared he would fall away completely. He had stood frozen to the spot while they worked on Neal, frantically trying to register the image in front of him, to connect with it and do something. But the sight of Neal in pain, frightened, struggling, dying – it had overwhelmed him, sickened him with grief. 

Elizabeth threaded her hand through his and as he came back to himself, he realised Hughes was talking to him. His mouth was moving, but no sound seemed to be coming out, as though he was standing behind a glass wall. There was blood on Hughes’ shirt, great smears of red across his stomach, as though he had bee hit by a flailing hand.

“ - sorry, Peter.”

Unable to look at him, Peter’s focus drifted to the centre of the desolate room. Neal’s blood soaked shirt and jacket lay discarded on a floor now littered with syringe caps and plastic wrappers, a scene of chaos and disaster written in shorthand. The medics hadn’t wasted any time. Neal had gone quiet shortly before they arrived, his eyes fluttering closed with a delicacy that seemed so absurdly at odds with the violence and bloodshed around him.

“Peter?” There was something in the strength of Elizabeth’s voice that made a lump form in his throat. “The medics said they’re taking him to Lenox Hill.”

Peter nodded dumbly, his stomach twisting. “I just need a minute.” He walked towards the side of the atrium, past the crowds of police and agents with their sympathetic looks, past the body bag on the floor. Finding an exit, Peter barely escaped out into the biting cold night air before he heaved.

 

*

 

It wasn’t an easy return to consciousness or a gradual awakening; it was a slap in the face, an unsettling, hypnic jerk that brought Neal gasping back to full awareness. There was a wave of sickening disorientation before he remembered. He tried to move but felt too disconnected from his body to make anything work properly. There was a sharp itch in the crook of his arm and the plastic air he was breathing wasn’t nearly rich enough to satisfy his tired lungs. The ache deep inside his chest was rare and exquisite.

“Neal?”

He looked over to find Diana sitting in the chair next to his bed, crammed into the cubicle amongst the machines and wires. She gave him a weak smile as stood up and rested her hands on the railing.

“What - ” he tried to ask, but his mouth was too dry and he choked on the lingering metallic taste. With gentleness Neal wouldn’t have thought her capable, Diana carefully tipped his head forward so he could eat a few ice chips. He closed his eyes in relief as it quelled the fire at the back of his throat.

“You’re okay. You’re in the ICU. You had surgery last night and have been out of it for most of the day." She set the cup down. "Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded sluggishly. “Peter?” The word came out as a broken and fractured sound.

“Safe. Elizabeth, too.”

Something eased in Neal’s chest but then coiled back twice as tight. Peter was alive; Peter wasn’t there.

“The bullet punctured your lung – came pretty close to your heart.”

“It's bad?” Neal asked, seeing Diana's neutral expression falter.

“You lost a lot of blood. Your doctor said surgery went well, but they’re worried about complications.” Diana looked around the curtain of the cubicle. “The nurse just stepped out but she’ll be back in a minute.” It wasn’t much of an answer but it told him everything he needed to know. “You need anything?”

Mozzie’s name formed on his lips before Neal remembered. He fumbled. “June?”

“She’s out of town. Jones left a couple of messages.”

“London with Cindy.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

The sudden urge to cry caught him by surprise, his throat tightening. Neal bit his lip, blinking furiously. Diana’s fingers curled around his. “I’m going to find someone to check on you, okay?” She squeezed his hand and disappeared.

Doctors and surgeons and specialists came and went, and as the afternoon progressed Neal felt worse and worse. His doctor was concerned about his heart rate and blood pressure, but Neal just wanted to sleep, too tired and frightened to think about any of it. He slept fitfully, achingly tired and pumped full of drugs, but was unable to relax fully, slipping in and out of strange dreams and disturbed by the unfamiliar sounds of the hospital around him. He felt bereft each time he woke to find either Diana or Jones with him, unable to find comfort in them and desperately hoping the next time it would be Peter there, if only so he could send him away again, though Neal knew he never would. 

_"Neal?”_

It seemed as if he had only closed his eyes for a second, dropping into another disquieting dream, when a hand tapped his face he woke to find himself surrounded by medical personnel. He had been rolled onto his side and when he looked down he noticed there was a kidney dish lying on the floor, spattered with foamy blood.

“He’s conscious.”

“You with us, buddy?”

Neal blinked and tried to focus.  There was a commotion going on nearby – voices and sounds layered over one another haphazardly. The doctor leaning over him said something someone out of Neal’s line of sight before turning back to him. “Neal, you’re bleeding into your chest again and we need to take you back into surgery, okay?”

Neal shook his head. “Now?”

“Your blood pressure has dropped quite significantly and we think there’s a secondary bleed near your heart. There is a risk from having a second anesthetic so soon after the last, but there’s really no other option.” She rubbed a hand over his shoulders, her touch genuine, empathetic. “You’re in good hands, all right?”

He nodded slowly, recognising the empty platitudes for what they were, but feeling grateful for them anyway.

“Do you want to see your friend before we take you down?”

Friend? Neal looked across the room to see Diana hovering in the doorway and Neal was startled by the strain on her face, a visible unease he didn’t associate with her. "You've got to stop passing out on me like that, Caffrey," Diana said, moving closer.

“Have to get your attention somehow,” he said, with a breathless laugh. His body felt wrong, fragile and overstretched, like it knew he’d lived too many lives already. He took a wheezing breath. “Tell Peter – ” What? Tell Peter what? What could he possibly say? He didn’t know the words for this excruciating mix of desperation and enmity.

Diana smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’ll let him know. I’ll talk to him.”

As he was anaesthetised, Neal could feel each sense slowly slip away, like he was being deconstructed from the inside out. Sight was the first to fade, dimming before the last of the milky substance was pushed into his veins. He barely felt the cold rush of air as the gown was removed from his chest and distantly heard himself ask the surgeon what his chances were, but slipped into oblivion before there was a reply.

 

*

 

A restless energy had taken up residence in Peter’s body ever since he and Elizabeth left the hospital that morning and travelled back to Brooklyn.

It seemed as though they had been away for years, not days. Strangers in their own home. El had hesitated before she crossed the threshold; in the cold light of day the destruction had been magnified, seemingly nothing left untouched by the break-in or the chaos that followed in its wake.

Peter busied himself with cleaning the house while Elizabeth slept, throwing out anything Keller and his men might have touched or tainted. Broken glass. Splintered wood. Upturned saucepans. Finger print dust. Trampled flowers and spilled soil. He tried to scrub the red stain from the kitchen rug, but it was already too ingrained, too much like blood. After an hour he threw it away. There was crime scene tape still hanging from the back door and it looked so surreal and incongruous that Peter wavered for half a second before carefully unpeeling it from the painted surface.

He washed the floors next, the excess water sloshing across the hardwood in thin rivers that provided Satchmo with an endless source of excitement. Peter smiled at the dog’s playfulness, but the expression felt strange on his face and quickly fell. He wondered if that was how it felt to Keller when he smiled, the imitation of the real thing, a meaningless movement of muscle. In his mind, Peter pulled the trigger and watched Keller fall to the ground, satisfaction and relief rippling through him like electricity.

Then he saw Neal.

With his heart in his mouth Peter watched as Neal fell to the ground too, dropping to his knees like some Shakespearean anti-hero in his final act. Neal hadn’t seemed to realise he’d been shot at first, scrambling to his feet to duck the next volley of bullets. It was only when back-up arrived moments later that he'd staggered.

They had waited at the hospital through the night, Peter, El and the team, until Neal was finally declared tenuously stable by the surgeon in the early hours of the morning. Peter had stood outside the room watching Neal breathe on a ventilator, unable to move forward, but not quite capable of leaving. His eyes had been taped shut, artificial tears soaking his dark eyelashes.

The blend of guilt, anger and gratitude Peter felt towards Neal was overpowering, holding all the frustration of unrequited love and every wrenching twist of a break up. Neal saved his life, but what now? It was like he’d been handed the burnt embers of something and was supposed to make sense of what had been. He wanted to hate Neal for the destruction he had wrought on their lives, for Elizabeth very nearly paying the price for his indiscretions, his greed, no matter what he intended. It would be so much easier, simpler, not to care. But deep down Peter knew he didn’t have that option anymore. He’s not Kramer; he would never settle for a monthly email from prison or cryptic postcards from a tropical island ten thousand miles out of reach. Though, he couldn’t accept a lie either.

Peter continued working methodically throughout the day, moving from the kitchen through to the dining and living areas. He was bone weary, back and arms aching from the exertion, but he kept going, finding release in the physical labour. Periodically, he checked on Elizabeth, ensuring her sleep was restful and undisturbed. At midday he called Diana who told him Neal was still unconscious, but at least stable and breathing on his own. He called Hughes as well, for an update on the way the case was being handled by the bureau. It was with muted relief that he learned Keller was the one they believed to be responsible for the theft of the treasure. The bureau had spun the theory that Keller wanted Neal’s help in escaping with it and Peter decided to just let them spin it; he had no appetite for either justice or revenge now.

It was evening by the time he was finished and the scent of disinfectant saturated everything. Two trash bags leant against the now boarded up back door. It still didn’t feel like their home, but at least a part of it had been reclaimed.

As he tried to reseal the bottle of floor cleaner, the cap slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor before disappearing under the couch. Shooing an inquisitive Satchmo out of the way, Peter reached down to retrieve it and as he fumbled blindly, his fingers brushed against something soft – a piece of fabric. He pulled it out, brushing off the lint and dust.

It was one of Neal’s ties.

The sight was jarring, one that threatened the stoic resolve he had carefully maintained since the moment they'd arrived at the hospital. Sitting back on his heels, Peter turned the ridiculous, overpriced strip of grey silk in his hand, affection and grief welling in his chest. He thought of the team photo in the bedroom, the half drunk bottle of Frascati in the fridge and the charcoal pencil Neal left on the dining table one lunch time; the one he would always accidentally pick out of the pen holder, ending up with black fingertips and smudgy case notes. He wondered if Neal was ever actually happy in this life – was the smile in that photo as fake as all the rest? It hurt Peter to think Neal had been dreaming of an escape this entire time, even though he knew being caught on a leash was no way for a man like Neal to live, a bird in a gilded cage. But if Peter was really honest with himself, he was angry with Neal for wanting a life somewhere else, for being willing to cut all ties and leave him in the dust without looking back, something Peter could never conceive of doing to Neal.

It was on his knees next to the couch with this strange tangle of emotions blossoming through him, that Elizabeth found him. She sunk down next to him, wrapping an arm around his back. “You’ve been cleaning,” she said, a forced lightness evident in her voice. She quirked an eyebrow. “If I’d known getting kidnapped was the answer, I would have done it a lot sooner.”

Peter cracked a smile. “I always knew you were a devious woman, Mrs Burke.” He gently ran a thumb over the bruise on her cheek. “How’re you feeling?”

“It all hasn’t really sunk in.” She shook her head and Peter pulled her closer. “I just can’t stop thinking about everything – about Neal, Mozzie...It’s all so hard to believe.”

Peter huffed. “Is it? They’re con men. This – ” He dropped the tie onto the coffee table. “This is exactly what I should have expected from the start.”

“Neal saved your life, Peter, mine too. And he’s fighting for his.”

“It still doesn’t change what he did, El – what he was going to do. I can’t just ignore that." Peter shook his head. "He was planning to betray me, but didn’t hesitate to take a bullet for me - why?”

Elizabeth smiled wanly. “Because…he’s Neal. He thinks with his heart.” She pulled back suddenly and when Peter looked at her he could see the thoughts churning in her mind. “Where was he?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“When you found Mozzie at the airport, where was Neal?”

“He was right – ” Peter stopped. “He was right beside me.”

“Why was Mozzie leaving before Neal?”

“I don’t know.” Peter shook his head. “What does that change?”

“Because without Mozzie, Neal is vulnerable. It doesn’t make any sense to leave separately. Look, I don’t know what Neal is or isn’t guilty of here, but there’s more to this, Peter, I’m sure of it. It’s never black and white when it comes to him. You owe it to Neal to at least hear him out. 

Peter nodded. The idea that Neal’s betrayal may not be absolute started to unfurl in his mind, the events of the past few months and days suddenly becoming malleable, unravelling with the slightest touch. Neal had been there with him, but hadn’t Keller’s plans simply interrupted his own? He wanted desperately to believe that not everything was as it had first appeared, the hope almost a physical ache building in his chest. “You’re right," he said, just as his cell phone started ringing. “I owe him that much.”  Seeing _Diana_ on the call ID, he picked up. The way she said his name when he answered made his blood run cold.

 

 

*

 

Voices drifted across the periphery of Neal’s mind, but it was as though they were caught by the wind, pulled away from him before he could make any sense of them. His skin felt cool and damp; he must be in the ocean, he thought, his mind stumbling over the reasons why he would be drifting out from shore on a night like this. It was too cold for the Med or the Caribbean. The Atlantic, maybe…

_“Can he hear me?”_

Did they make it? Did he leave for Venezuela with Mozzie after all? If he was in the ocean then perhaps that little plane couldn’t bear the burden of the treasure any better than they could. But if they had crashed, wouldn’t there be flames and heat and wreckage? He moved his hand through the water, trying to anchor himself somehow so he didn’t drift any further out than he already had, so someone might find him. His fingertips brushed against something solid and he reached out to catch it.

_“It’s okay, you’re all right, you're all right.”_

A warm hand rested on his forehead, gently sweeping his damp hair back. Neal fought the pull of unconsciousness and opened his eyes but nothing would focus, his surroundings composed of indistinct forms in greyscale, rippling along with the tide.

But - that voice.

He would recognise Peter’s voice anywhere.

 

*

 

It was five days before Neal woke with a clear mind. Time had been fragmented and hazy, demarcated only by heat and light and the touch of someone's hands on his skin. The doctors told him was in a medically induced coma after his second surgery and that for two days they didn’t think he’d survive. They told him there were two small incisions under his left arm and both would scar and fade given time. Someone told him scars are something to be proud of.

In those days, he learned that June would fly across an ocean for him at the drop of a hat, and that she could cow an errant doctor at fifty paces. She was also a goddess. He learned morphine made him nauseous, Demerol made him spacey, but Oxycodone made it all better. And that watching _Monk_ while high on intravenous drugs was less fun than he might have previously imagined. It also made him miss Mozzie all the more. He spent hours thinking about where he might have run, plotting and planning until he was sick and exhausted and resented him all over again.

He learned that Peter didn’t visit often – he had Elizabeth to think of and Neal would never begrudge him that. But when he did come, they talked without ever really saying, circling each other in a slow, faltering waltz. It was polite, restrained, unnatural; Peter never stayed long enough for it to be anything else. Sometimes, on the bad days, Neal wondered if he was simply waiting until Neal was well enough for a fight.

Like now.

Peter was leaning against the wall by the door, neither committing himself to staying, nor making a decisive decision to leave. He had been talking about baseball for some time to hold off the strained silence threatening to fall over the room. But Neal wasn’t listening; it was rarely the words that were important. Instead, he watched. He watched, so he saw when the tension in Peter’s jaw ebbed and flowed, belying the lightness of his voice, so he didn’t miss his rigid posture, or the gaze that avoided his own, the one steadfastly focused on the cityscape beyond the window.

Waiting. They were both _waiting_.

“Looks like they’ll have a good season in any case,” Peter said. 

Neal nodded disinterestedly and Peter must have mistaken it for tiredness because he reached for his coat and told Neal to call if he needed anything. Neal opened his mouth to stop him, but the words wouldn't form and just as quickly as he had appeared, Peter was gone.

 

*

 

It was early when Peter next visited, the hospital room still swathed in the kind of grey-blue light that followed a winter sunrise. Neal had been awake for hours, watching the colours transform.

“Someone from Internal Affairs is coming to speak to you later today,” Peter said, placing a pen and what looked like a report form on the bedside table. “It’s a formality really, but I thought you might want to get your story straight – about the shooting,” he clarified unnecessarily.

Neal nodded but ignored the items. From what Jones and Diana had told him, the authorities saw him as a victim in all this, like Elizabeth, and a hero, like Peter. Though, they all knew he wasn’t really one or the other.

“If you’re not up to it or you feel unwell at any point, you can tell them to leave, it’s only – ”

“A formality. I get it. It’s fine.”

Peter looked at him briefly, ducking his head in acknowledgment before turning to leave.

“Why do you come here, Peter?” Neal's question stopped him in his tracks. “You didn’t need to travel all the way into Manhattan to tell me this.”

There was a beat of silence before Peter turned back to face him.

“You’re right,” Peter said, hands falling open by his sides. “I always think I’ll figure it out the next time I visit, but by the time I get here it all just falls apart. I honestly don’t know what to say to you, Neal.”

“Say anything – anything that’s not baseball, or football, or the weather.”

Peter looked at him and Neal could see the raw emotion simmering in his eyes, though his stoic countenance was unwavering. “You want to hear how disappointed I am in you?”

“Yes.”

"You want to know how betrayed I feel?”

“Yes.”

“You let me down.” Peter stepped forward, placing weight on each word.

“I know it looks that way – ”

The laugh Peter barked out was a bitter, cutting sound, but his voice was nothing more than a low growl. “It doesn’t just _look_ that way, Neal. Mozzie may have engineered the theft, but you went along with it, you helped him put everything in place to run and Elizabeth nearly paid the price. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Neal looked down, Peter’s words stinging like a well aimed slap to the face; he wasn’t responsible for Keller’s actions, hadn't invited them, but he’d still carry the guilt. “If I’d thought it was even a possibility that Keller would come after - Peter, you know I would never do anything to harm her or you.”

“No, I know it would never be deliberate, but this is what becomes of greed and avarice. Innocent people always get caught in the crossfire.”

“I had no choice in this.”

Peter shook his head. “There’s always a choice.”

“Yeah, betray one friend or the other. That’s not a choice, that’s purgatory. You have no idea what it’s like to have two people you care aboue pull you apart.” Neal looked Peter in the eye, needing him to believe in this truth if nothing else. “I didn’t want to go, I didn’t, but you were making it impossible for me to stay. I was just trying to stop the bleeding until I could figure some way out of this mess, for all of us.”

“You had the treasure for months!”

“And I let it go.”

“Why?”

"Because - " Neal hesitated, not willing to make himself vulnerable with the absolute truth. “Because it wasn’t what I wanted.”

Peter stilled at this, searching Neal’s face for the shadow of a lie. Whatever he found softened something in him, eroded a little of the distance that had been separating them for months. “Mozzie was leaving without you, wasn’t he? Not before you.”

“If I had wanted to run, I’d be a ghost by now.” It was the truth, they both knew that much. “You accused me, you hunted me, and I chose to stay anyway.”

Peter ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply through his nose, in relief or frustration, Neal couldn’t tell. “You could have come to me. We could’ve figured something out before it got to this.”

Neal laughed sourly. “How could I? At the docks when the warehouse exploded, it took you all of a second to decide I was guilty, that I had manipulated this all from the start. There was nothing I could have done. You threw the first stone.”

Peter looked incredulous. “Oh, you’re splitting hairs now.”

“Screw you, Peter!”

“Screw me?”

“If I had come to you with this from the start, told you I didn’t do it, would you have really believed me?” Neal’s voice was hoarse now, exhaustion and frustration overwhelming him. "And what about Mozzie? How can I – ” He shifted, trying to sit up straighter in the bed, but the movement tugged awkwardly at the damaged muscles in his chest and he was unable to bite back a moan of pain. “ _Shit_.” He leaned forward, waiting out the wave of nausea that followed, sweat prickling on his skin.

“Hey, easy, easy. It’s okay.” Peter quickly moved to his side, adjusting the pillows so as to support him better and easing him back. His hand came to rest on Neal’s shoulder, and when Neal looked up, the anguish he saw in Peter's eyes was startling. “You want me to get someone?”

Neal shook his head, smoothing out his expression as much as possible, desperate for Peter to stay.

Peter stepped back looking unsure of himself as Neal recovered. He pull the chair a little closer to the bed and sat down. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle. “I’m a cop, Neal. That’s who I am. I know I can trust you with my life, but the other things, they’re harder.”

Neal was unsure of where that left him, though it was a contradiction he understood well. “I guess that’s how it’ll always be with us.”

A strange expression flickered across Peter’s face. “I hope not.”

Neal gestured to his ankle, which was bare and unrestrained. “You haven’t told the bureau the truth about what happened – why?”

Peter shook his head, his shoulders slumping forward imperceptibly. “Because that would’ve been the end. Because I thought you were dying. Because you would’ve gone away for life and I suppose I wanted to be sure – ” Peter trailed off. “Perhaps I did get too close,” he said, so quietly that after a beat of silence Neal started to doubt he said it at all. They sat quietly for a moment, still on uncertain ground. The phone at the nurse's station was ringing. Further down the corridor the elevator doors opened and someone laughed.

"I never thanked you for what you did. I - " 

"You don't have anything to thank me for, Peter." Neal ducked his head, hoping Peter would take the brush off for what it was.

Peter opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his expression a complex dance. “I should go," he said, finally. "I promised I’d drive Elizabeth to a meeting uptown this morning.”

“She’s back at work?”

“She insisted,” Peter shrugged, though his pride was unmistakable.

Neal watched him go, listening to his shoes squeak away down the corridor and wondering where they were both supposed to go from here.

 

*

 

It was a welcome relief to finally return to the solace of his apartment. 

June helped ease him into bed and set about placing everything he could possibly need in the next hour within his reach. His side was still raw and tender, as though there were a thousand shards of glass inside him, making every movement slow and tense.

“Rest, dear,” June said, cupping his cheek in her hand and giving him a knowing look before she retreated downstairs.

Neal sunk down into the sheets, savouring the familiar smell of fabric softener and a trace of his own aftershave that still lingered. The journey back from the hospital had exhausted him, the effort of putting on clothes and climbing from a wheelchair into a car seemingly more than he was capable of at the moment, but he was sick of sleeping. He rolled his head to the side and looked around his home. There was an open but untouched bottle of wine on the table and two glasses, the jacket he had worn to work the day before he was shot was folded carefully over a dining chair, and his paint brushes were still soaking in a jar on the counter next to the sink. It was exactly as he left it that night, everything still in its place. He supposed June kept it that way intentionally, for him to return as though nothing had happened, but instead it felt strange, like someone else had been living here all along.

In the silence of his apartment, the chatter of his mind returned, growing louder and louder by the minute. He closed his eyes but that only connected the sounds to images. It had been two weeks since his house of cards collapsed around him, two weeks since he last saw Mozzie. Another airstrip, another final goodbye. It had been cold out on the exposed tarmac, the wind whipping around them mercilessly, twisting and stretching their words beyond all meaning. Peter, so focused and terrified, hadn’t cared that Mozzie slipped away once the treasure was unloaded; they all knew he wouldn’t stand a chance if he came back to the city – either Keller or the feds, at that point it seemed inevitable someone would get him.

But now, in the clear, cold light of day, Neal needed him, needed his presence, his guidance. Just as he couldn’t live without Peter, he couldn’t see a way forward without Mozzie either.

Powering up his laptop and fumbling under the blankets for his cell, Neal began his search, contacting everyone who had an ear to the ground, reaching out to anyone who owed him a favour. He spends hours pouring over the information, looking for the tell tale sign, the ‘x’ that marked the spot, but it seemed as though Mozzie had melted away entirely.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

Peter’s voice snapped Neal from his thoughts. Looking up, he saw him standing in the doorway, dressed for work, the outlines of his badge and gun just visible under his suit jacket.

Neal offered him a smile. “Been doing too much of that these past few weeks." Peter moved further into the apartment, looking at the papers, maps and notes that were strewn across the bed. Something hardened imperceptibly in his expression, but he didn’t say anything. “You catch a case?” Neal asked.

“First one back. Mortgage fraud,” Peter replied, inclining his head in a way that suggested it wasn’t receiving his full attention. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I don’t ever want to get shot again,” Neal said, careful to keep his voice light. “I’m getting there.”

“Good. You look good.” Peter nodded. "You've got a little more colour in your cheeks." Sitting down in the chair opposite the bed, Peter’s attention was drawn back to the debris surrounding Neal. He eyed Peter warily, wishing he’d been more careful, watching as he leaned forward, evidently taking the time to choose his next words carefully. “I won’t help you find him.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still gonna try?”

“I have to, Peter. He’s my friend. Before Mozzie I was – ” Neal trailed off. “I don’t really know myself without him.”

Peter looked at him, studying his face intently and Neal could see him moving the pieces around in his mind, clicking them into place. Neal shifted under the scrutiny but refused to look away. “Maybe a bit of distance is a good thing,” Peter said, finally.

Neal shook his head, but didn’t say anything. He knew this would be a battle between them and there was too little left in him for that. He shrugged, trying to deflect the conversation while gathering up his notes. “I guess making good decisions, doing the right thing, doesn’t come easily to me.”

“Bullshit.”

Neal looked up at Peter in surprise.

“That’s an excuse and you know it. Do you really think you’d be lying here with a bullet wound if that were true?” There was fierceness in Peter’s voice, but it wasn’t anger. “Your life is what you make of it – it’s not predetermined by fate or history. You’re capable of some pretty bad things, but there’s a hell of a lot of good – I wouldn’t be alive otherwise. Whatever happens in the future, Neal, it’s not something I’ll ever forget. You shouldn’t either.”

“The future?”

“I once told you that you can be a con or a man but you can’t be both, remember? So, who are you going to be?”

Neal was thrown by the unexpected question. The con had never been about the money, neither the plans he dreamt up with Mozzie or before him; it was about survival and his answer depended very much on whether or not he was going to be backed into a corner again.

“I don’t know,” he answered, honestly, because he had nothing else left; he felt stripped of the ability to lie or evade.

Peter looked down, letting his hands fall into his lap, all energy seeming to dissipate from his body. He stood up and for a heart stopping moment Neal thought that he was leaving, giving up on a lost cause. But instead Peter crossed the small distance to the window, looking out at the city for a long moment.

“Okay." When Peter turned to face Neal his gaze was steady and calm. “Okay. We can work with that.”

 

*

 

Neal woke late the next morning to find his apartment empty and still. Bright sunlight spilled in through the windows, fanning out in long ribbons that stretched across the ceiling. He stared at them for a long time until he saw the ripples of sand churned by the ocean, or the silhouette of a modernist building in Bilbao – or train tracks curling off towards a distant horizon.

After a while, he turned onto his side, gingerly searching for a more comfortable position. As he did so, his hand hit something cool and hard. Looking down, he found a sketchbook nestled in the sheets next to his fingertips. Certain the painkillers were playing tricks on him, Neal reached out and picked it up. The elegant black hardcover opened with a satisfying crack as the spine yielded to his touch, revealing crisp white pages. He flipped through the book, savouring the rich, earthy scent of new paper, and as it fell to the first page, he noticed there were two words in the top left hand corner, the familiar cursive carefully written in pencil.

_Start here…_

 

 


End file.
